


In Silence

by radio_silent



Series: Coming Home [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Depression, Eating Disorder, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I swear this has a happy ending, M/M, Mycroft needs to work on his coping mechanisms, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radio_silent/pseuds/radio_silent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then, eight days after he enters the Diogenes club, someone breaks the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set in the same ‘verse as ["Beyond the Grave,"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/448566) but "In Silence" works fine as a standalone as well.
> 
> TW for depression and symptoms thereof. (Feel free to message me if you want a full warning list! But I think the tags should give you a pretty good idea.)
> 
> Thanks to the amazing [krisjo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/krisjo/pseuds/krisjo) for the beta!

Mycroft watches the retreating form of one DI Gregory Lestrade as Gregory walks back to his tiny kitchen. Mycroft’s eyes drop back down to the bowl of soup in his own lap. It’s preposterous: soup in bed in a miniscule flat in the heart of London.

He isn’t even sick.

The soup is warm, welcoming, and inconceivably kind. That Gregory wants to take care of him…it means more than Mycroft could ever impress on the man. Mycroft hasn’t had anyone to take care of him in quite some time.

But Gregory believes Mycroft is in mourning, when that isn’t quite true. He shouldn’t be here, in his boyfriend’s flat, eating homemade soup. Gregory’s kindness is…too much. It’s certainly more than Mycroft deserves. Not after what he’s done.

No, Gregory has gone and ruined everything.

It isn’t supposed to be like this.


	2. Part One

Mycroft is an expert in silence, he thrives in it. His first negotiations happened before he could speak. The widening of his eyes or the absence of a smile gained him toys and milk and naptime before they came to any of his peers. “You were the perfect baby,” Mummy used to tell him. “So silent and sweet.”

He loved when she said that, but he never once blushed. Sometimes instead he’d sneer at his younger brother, still swaddled and letting loose wail after blood-curdling wail.

Mycroft tried to train him. “No toys for you, Sherlock,” he would say to the infant. He held the rattle high above Sherlock’s crib. “Not until you behave.” Sherlock wailed and wailed; eventually Mycroft left in a huff. It was the first time he learned that some things—some _brothers_ , in particular—are beyond negotiation.

Mycroft was raised in silence. Sherlock was cacophony; Sherlock played pirate when Mycroft was thirteen and old enough to know better. He was beyond the childish impulse to climb atop an armchair and shout “Land Ho!” Didn’t Sherlock know Mummy needed her sleep? No, Sherlock was too young to understand. Or maybe Mummy wasn’t sick enough just yet. Mycroft can’t remember anymore.

After she died, the Holmes estate echoed.

Sherlock took up the violin; Mycroft never did thank him properly for doing so. It was only in listening to the melodies that Mycroft could resume his studies. It wasn’t that his sadness weighed any less when Sherlock played, but his little brother unwittingly rearranged Mycroft’s grief like notes on a scale. Mycroft’s silence found purpose. It became the proper backdrop for Sherlock’s concertos.

Mycroft insisted on funding the lessons. He found Sherlock the greatest teachers money could buy. If Mycroft wasn’t being useful, at least he wasn’t being useless anymore, either.

After the Fall, Mycroft has no concertos. He surrounds himself with silence. It’s what he deserves, and it’s easy enough to get.

 

 

           

No one mentions Sherlock here. No one would dare.

The beauty of the Diogenes Club is that no one acknowledges any flaws to the system.  Mycroft has heard men cough, sneeze, and murmur words aloud as they read. People are imperfect; people make noise. However the Diogenes members are gentlemen of selective hearing: _No member may acknowledge any other member within the main room._

Mycroft has watched new members from the corner of his eye as they make their first accidental (inevitable) noise. They scan the room guilty to see if anyone has heard them sneeze. When no one appears to have noticed, the new members’ expressions change. Suddenly they look confused, even doubtful that they sneezed at all.

It’s a beautiful system.

Sherlock once said that sitting in the Diogenes was like existing alone in a world full of dead people. It was a rare moment of praise from his brother. Now Mycroft would like to suggest a corollary: if no one acknowledges you, it is a little like being dead yourself.

It would be maudlin and foolish to suggest that Mycroft stays here in an attempt to ally his condition with his brother’s. _He_ cannot afford to fall.

He can, however, afford to hide. To an extent, anyway: other members must have heard his mobile go off, multiple times. It emits one low beep for national affairs, two for international. His PA has been earning her keep by paring down his workload to emergencies only. He takes his meals inside the Diogenes, in his private room in the back. He has nowhere to sleep, but this presents no disruption to his plans. Mycroft likes sleep; He does not require it to function.

Sometimes his phone beeps three times. He wants to look at those texts but he never does.

He made his prison and now he has locked himself inside. He will not allow himself _conjugal visits._

No matter how often Gregory texts.

From work, from Gregory Lestrade, his phone beeps again and again. He sneezes, he feels utterly exhausted. Once he found himself tearing up, utterly out of his own control. (He will not offer himself private space to cry. He does not deserve it.) It doesn’t matter, what he does or does not do. Here, he is invisible.

Instead he sits. Occasionally, he mourns. Mostly, he thinks.

 

 

           

Until the Fall, Mycroft had always considered himself an expert in getting what he wanted. As a child Mycroft wanted for nothing. This wasn’t because their family had money (which they did), and it wasn’t because their father had died and so by default Mycroft stood as the dominant male (though this was also true). He wanted for nothing because he instinctively knew exactly how to negotiate for everything. That’s why Sherlock loathed him so when they were children. Sherlock sulked in corners as Mycroft always got the last piece of cake.

When they were children Sherlock decided to make himself as different from Mycroft as humanly possible. Given that they were two extremely intelligent people with similar genetic DNA and the same… _unconventional_ upbringing, Sherlock’s intention to destroy the combined efforts of nature and nurture (though the idea of “nurture” in the Holmes household was nearly humorous) required significant effort to implement.

But his brother was always so determined. So stubborn.

Mycroft was an expert at getting what he wanted, and so Sherlock became a study in insolence. Sherlock went to great lengths to make it appear as though his choices reflected whatever other people least wanted him to do. To those who knew both Holmes brothers, Mycroft seemed as magnanimous as Sherlock seemed selfish.

But Mycroft, who watched his brother grow up, knows this behaviour as the façade it truly is. By this point, Mycroft’s not sure even Sherlock remembers that’s it’s a façade.

No: _remembered._

Sherlock isn’t (wasn’t) selfish. Mycroft wasn’t (isn’t) the perfect negotiator. Sherlock would have loved that, to see Mycroft fail so thoroughly. The irony isn’t lost on the survivor.

He spent weeks working on Moriarty. Everyone did. Every kind of torture was employed, every kind of incentive was offered. Nothing worked. They had considerable evidence suggesting Moriarty’s new weapon would bring down London in a heartbeat, the rest of the world soon thereafter. Never let it be said his brother’s arch-nemesis cut corners.

When their efforts got them nowhere, they did what every desperate high-ranking government official would do: they called for Mycroft Holmes.

And Mycroft could make Moriarty talk—that was part of the man’s genius. Moriarty’s, of course. He flattered Mycroft, courted him, until he had him sharing the most intimate details of his brother’s early life. That’s what John Watson would tell you. (Much like Sherlock, John Watson has a penchant for grand statements. Not the same penchant, of course. Sherlock’s statements are (were) bragging, John’s are in the name of bravery.)

It wasn’t quite the case.

John implied that Mycroft had mindlessly handed Moriarty an annotated copy of Sherlock’s life story on a silver platter, when nothing could be further from the truth.

Mycroft was a Holmes; Mycroft wasn’t an idiot. He was well aware he betrayed his brother with each story he shared. If anything, Mycroft was too mindful. He wore his mindfulness like a shining badge. He had believed his mindfulness would protect his brother; his mindfulness would save the world.

Mycroft had carefully examined each anecdote he told Moriarty, and he checked himself when stories might reveal any information about Sherlock’s current life, his weaknesses, even his strengths. He limited the amount of embarrassing stories he relayed—though he did share a few. He knows Sherlock would have done the same, if not worse. Sherlock would not have been able to help himself.

He sold Sherlock’s story; he weighed his options and he left each session sure he had got the better deal. It’s a farce now, of course. (The trade was not acceptable; the trade was unnecessary.)

It’s a farce without laughter; it’s a silence.

It’s silence, still.

 

 

Mycroft has no doubt that, were he to perform a thorough investigation of all facts surrounding Sherlock’s death, he would discover that his brother was coerced into killing himself: Sherlock wasn’t one for suicide. He wanted everyone to worship him, and their adulation (or even just John Watson’s adulation, after the publicity scandal) was useless to him dead. Some days Mycroft entertains a frivolous suspicion that his brother isn’t dead at all but has performed some sort of elaborate magic trick. The greatest façade yet. It seems unlikely, but Mycroft knows his brother better than anyone, certainly better than the doctors who diagnosed Sherlock’s death and the reporters who proclaimed it “official.” Both Holmes brothers know (knew) exactly how little of the truth makes it into the papers these days.

But it doesn’t almost matter whether Sherlock is alive or dead. Mycroft made a mistake that cannot be unmade.

Moriarty is dead, that matters. There’s no hope of Shakespearian revenge left for Mycroft Holmes. No chance to redeem himself anymore. It’s not a negotiation not with only one party available and one option left.

For once, Mycroft takes what he’s given.

 

 

           

Then, eight days after he enters the Diogenes club, someone breaks the rules.

There’s a hand on his arm, a rude, interrupting hand on his arm, yanking him out of his favourite armchair and pulling him to his feet. He’s staring into the eyes of one DI Gregory Lestrade, and Gregory isn’t speaking but his mouth is set in a deep, downturned line, and he doesn’t let go of Mycroft’s arm.

Mycroft wants to say, “Don’t.” He wants to say, “I need this, let me be.” He wants to say, “You’re breaking the rules.” None of his unspoken words are elegant; none of them would work effectively in a negotiation.

It’s probably for the best he doesn’t speak.

Gregory doesn’t open his mouth either, but Mycroft knows just what he’s thinking. The tugging grip on his arm says, “We’re getting you out of here _now_ ,” and the way Gregory glances back to Mycroft’s face, inspecting every wrinkle says, “Too skinny, no sleep. What have you been doing to yourself?” Gregory chews on his lip, and he may as well shouted, “You bloody wanker, you disappear and you don’t think I’ll miss you?” Mycroft thinks that last one is a bit unfair. It’s not as though they talk every day of their lives; normally Gregory understands when Mycroft has to leave for business and can’t call him back while he’s away. It’s not as though Mycroft hasn’t missed Gregory, but he needed this silence. He deserved it.

Gregory drags him though the halls. He doesn’t let go of Mycroft even when they reach the exit of the club. Rather they’re standing outside on the streets of London in the twilight and pouring rain, and Gregory still has his hand wrapped around Mycroft’s wrist, even tighter than before. Mycroft’s umbrella is back inside the club, as is his coat. Gregory just stares at him; both of their faces are dripping wet. People rush past them on the street.

Gregory’s breathing hard, like Mycroft’s punched him. As if Mycroft’s winded him in some way.

Mycroft automatically tries to negotiate. What can he possibly say to mitigate the situation? “You’re being unfair,” is the only thought that comes to mind in response to the accusation built into every inch of Gregory’s features. But “You’re being unfair” won’t get him anywhere. Besides, he’s cold and he’s wet and he hasn’t slept in far too long. He doesn’t have the strength to argue. Or rather: he doesn’t have the strength to win.

“Christ, Mycroft,” Gregory finally whispers.

“You found me,” Mycroft says. He’s not quite sure why. It’s rather obvious. His tone comes out closer to a plea than anything else.

Gregory huffs out a laugh. It doesn’t sound terribly happy. None of their words mean what they ought to, and normally Mycroft would relish navigating a conversation with such heavy subtext. But nothing is normal right now. Nothing could be farther from normal.

“Bloody well ought,” Gregory says, which might mean, _Should have done sooner._ “I have a badge to certify that’s what I’m good for.” He breaks eye contact then, just for a second, to stare at the ground. “Had a badge,” he corrects. Then he pulls his eyes back to Mycroft. “So. Yours or mine?”

“Neither,” Mycroft says. “I’d like to return to my club.”

“Bollocks,” Gregory says. Mycroft had a feeling he might. Then something shifts; Gregory stands up straighter. “Mine it is, then.”

“Kidnapping a government official is a federal crime,” Mycroft says softly.

Gregory looks like he’s going to say something. Mycroft can’t possibly guess what. He also can’t guess that Gregory is going to let go of his wrist (Mycroft suddenly feels hollow) and pull him in for a hug. Mycroft wants to keep his body stiff, to protest: he’s fine on his own. Instead his frame sags the instant he makes contact with Gregory’s body. He lays his head down on Gregory’s shoulder.

This is dangerous. People will see. People will talk. Someone may realize how much Mycroft needs Gregory. Someone might try to use Gregory against him.

Mycroft ignores the paranoia for the moment, in spite of every one of his instincts. He closes his eyes and takes deep, heaving breaths. He can’t breathe deeply enough.

Eventually, he allows Gregory to lead him home.


	3. Part Two

It’s light outside when he wakes up. The rest of the evening had passed like a fever dream. Mycroft’s not entirely sure what has happened. When he wakes he is dressed in track suit bottoms (obviously not his own, as he does not own track suit bottoms) and a t-shirt. He does not feel like himself in these clothes.

He finds that he does not mind in the least.

It’s easier, not being himself. Someone who is not Mycroft could take this opportunity to relax in his boyfriend’s arms. Someone who is not Mycroft could turn and press a kiss to his boyfriend’s cheek. Someone who is not Mycroft would not require himself to leave the bed, check his phone, or entertain any ideas of escape.

Mycroft has never been a master of disguise. (That was always his brother’s arena.) He is, however, very skilled at compromise. His compromise: he will not move a muscle. He merely eyes the clock on the bedside table, noting the midmorning hour. (No alarm is set: Gregory must not be expected in these days. Not after the scandal. Moriarty’s actions left no one important untouched.) He checks that he has not disturbed Gregory. (He hasn’t.) Then he closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

 

 

 

The next time Mycroft wakes it’s nearly dinnertime.

It’s rather embarrassing; Mycroft hasn’t slept this long in years. It feels indulgent and childish, made only more so when Gregory brings him chicken noodle soup in bed.

“I’m not sick,” Mycroft says. He eats a spoonful anyway, because it smells delicious and he hasn’t had anything to eat in a very long time. He’s immediately glad he decided to eat the soup. Gregory smiles, just the tiniest bit, as he eats.

Then Gregory shrugs. “Seemed appropriate,” he says, which isn’t exactly an explanation. Mycroft eats another spoonful and watches the smile return. Maybe an explanation isn’t necessary. Mycroft has more of the soup. He watches Gregory watch him. He wonders if Gregory is aware that he’s staring.

“Are you going to eat anything yourself?” Mycroft asks dryly.

Gregory ducks his head and smiles (ah, yes, he’s aware) before he nods a little. “Good to have you back,” Gregory calls out as he walks back to the kitchen.

Mycroft smirks a bit. Then his eyes drop back down to the soup. He frowns. It’s warm and welcoming; Gregory wants to take care of him in his mourning.

It isn’t supposed to be like this.

Mycroft remembers who he is, and what he’s done. He feels himself sinking back into his body. He puts the bowl of soup down. He feels naked in the t-shirt. As Gregory pads back into the bedroom, carrying another bowl of soup with him (this bowl is for Gregory so that they might match), Mycroft leans over to the bedside table to pick up his mobile.

There’s a small thunk as Gregory puts the second soup-bowl on the dresser. He comes back to bed and places a hand over the face of Mycroft’s phone.

“Can it wait?” Gregory says. He doesn’t give Mycroft time to answer, simply cups Mycroft’s cheek in his fingertips. Mycroft finds himself leaning into the touch.

“I missed you,” Gregory says. He kisses him.

The kiss starts slow, even sweet. Mycroft puts the phone back down on the table so he has both hands free. He reaches for the back of Gregory’s neck, running a finger lightly up and down the skin. Gregory groans at that and climbs back into bed, on top of the sheets, as he deepens the kiss. Mycroft’s other hand clutches Gregory’s back. He’s worried that if he lets go, the whole thing will shatter. Gregory has no idea what Mycroft’s done to Sherlock, Gregory cares (cared) for Sherlock almost as much as Mycroft does (did). While they are kissing, Mycroft isn’t responsible. He doesn’t have to explain, because he physically can’t. When Gregory’s kissing him, his mouth is no longer his own.

He is aware he’s deflecting.

He thinks, very distantly, that perhaps he should stop.

Then Gregory does something with his tongue (or rather, he does that thing with his tongue), and Mycroft feels himself go a bit boneless. Gregory reaches a hand under the sheets separating them and Mycroft comes back into himself. He takes Gregory’s hand, the reaching one, and gently places it on his own neck. He takes control of the kiss, teasing it out and slowing it down. It takes him longer to pull away than he had intended.

“What?” Gregory whispers.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says simply, and his boyfriend deflates. Gregory rolls over to the other side of the bed and stares at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” Gregory says.

Mycroft stares at the ceiling too, because it seems polite. Secretly, he’d rather look at Gregory. He wonders for the first time how Gregory is taking the loss. He wishes he could try to read it in his boyfriend’s face.

Gregory cared for his brother. In granting Sherlock employment despite the worst of his addiction, in keeping an eye on Sherlock during more than one overdose, Gregory had been a better parent than Mycroft ever could. Gregory also exercised impressive discretion all the while, considering his colleagues’ propensities for name-calling and gossip. It was one of the first things Mycroft had ever admired about the man. Gregory would never have given out Sherlock’s secrets.

“It’s my fault,” Mycroft says, then closes his eyes. He hadn’t intended to share that. Now that it’s out, though, it seems only fair. They’re in a relationship, but they do not have to be. After he learns the truth Gregory might not want to attach himself to Mycroft in any way.

Mycroft wouldn’t blame him in the slightest.

Something brushes Mycroft’s fingertips. He has to look down at his own hand to prove to himself that he’s not going crazy. But no, Mycroft has just told Gregory that he killed his own brother, and Gregory is trying to hold his hand. In his shock, Mycroft lets him.

“I’m sorry you lost your brother,” Gregory says.

“Gregory,” Mycroft says slowly. “It’s my fault.”

Gregory brings his free hand up to stroke Mycroft’s hair, and Mycroft wants to tell him no. He wants to tell him to stop. For some reason, he does neither of these things.

“Moriarty forced Sherlock to jump off St. Bart’s,” Gregory says. “I’ve been looking into it. I’ll keep looking into it.”

“Well then, here’s something for your investigation: I helped Moriarty.” Mycroft shuts his eyes. “I might as well have stood there and pushed Sherlock off the building myself.”

Mycroft waits for Gregory to pull away, but his boyfriend continues stroking his hair as if Mycroft hasn’t revealed anything at all. Oh. Mycroft opens his eyes.

“John’s spoken to you,” he says flatly. “No, my mistake. You’ve spoken to John.”

Gregory nods slowly. “He doesn’t much want to talk. Not yet.”

“But he told you about me. About…” Mycroft clears his throat a bit. His voice sounds hoarse in his ears, but he’s deflecting. He forces himself to actually say the words. “About what I did.”

Gregory moves his thumb back and forth, running it slowly across the skin of Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft dislikes that; it feels as though he’s being coddled. “It wouldn’t matter, My. I know you. You’d never do anything to hurt your brother. That’s the last thing you’d do.”

Mycroft snorts in disbelief. He pushes Gregory’s hand away and sits up in bed. “But John must have told you. It doesn’t matter that it was unintended. I was foolish enough to think I could win against Moriarty. I made the wrong choice.”

“Yes, well, Moriarty is a bastard.”

“Was,” Mycroft corrects.

Gregory shuts his eyes. He takes a deep breath. Gregory frowns.

There; that’s it. Now Gregory understands properly Mycroft’s silence, his self-imprisonment. It would be different if there were some sort of mission. But, for once, Sherlock cleaned up his own mess. No reason it’s worth investigating, and no hope of revenge.

Then Gregory huffs a laugh. He opens his eyes. “You know, I should have guessed. Of course Sherlock would go down fighting. Of course he gave as good as he got.” He shakes his head back and forth, like he’s disagreeing with something Mycroft has said, when Mycroft hasn’t actually said anything.

Gregory laughs again, and for no reason Mycroft can fathom the sound catalyzes something in Mycroft. Something in his chest feels like it’s breaking loose. Mycroft wonders if he needed it. Was it an important something? What was it, exactly? Mycroft hates the imprecision, this new need for metaphor. It’s a deeply uncomfortable sensation.

“You know,” Gregory says, “Sherlock would have had my hide for not guessing that.”

“Would he?” Mycroft barely manages.

Gregory can’t seem to stop laughing.

Mycroft is breathing a bit funny himself.

“No, you’re right, he wouldn’t have done. He’d have called me an idiot, or said it was typical, and then he would have stalked off with John in one of those big dramatic exits he liked.”

Gregory’s still laughing, and Mycroft can see tears in the corners of his boyfriend’s eyes. Mycroft wants to wipe them away.

Gregory might not like that, however. Mycroft isn’t sure if he is allowed.

When Gregory stops laughing and finally speaks again, his voice is hoarse. “I’m going to miss the tosser.”

Mycroft places a hand lightly on Gregory’s back. Gregory nods to Mycroft, just once. He bites his lip, and after a moment he starts breathing more deeply.

Maybe Mycroft doesn’t need that piece inside him after all. It doesn’t feel so important anymore. The empty metaphorical space feels pleasant, even. As if there’s more room for the air he breathes.

(It doesn’t make him hate metaphors any less.)

“Indeed,” Mycroft says softly, once Gregory’s breathing has fully slowed. Gregory quirks a smile his way.

“I missed you,” Gregory repeats. There’s something more to it this time, something different from before.

Mycroft, as is often the case when it comes to the detective, finds himself helpless to resist. He takes Gregory’s hand and kisses the back of it. Gregory closes his eyes.

“Indeed,” Mycroft says.

 

 

 

Gregory’s miniscule flat bears distinct markings of an unused living space. The flat is effectively furnished and clean, but the higher surfaces could use a good dusting and the walls are bare. It’s the polar opposite of Mycroft’s own house. Here there are no high-backed chairs, no antique maps. Here there is merely Gregory making Mycroft tea, Gregory turning on Downton Abbey, Gregory leading Mycroft to the sofa.

It’s more than enough.

Gregory and Mycroft spent most of the day in bed, napping and catching up in hushed voices. It’s entirely unnecessary, their whispering, but neither one seems inclined to raise their voice. It’s a kind of contract, but Mycroft isn’t certain what kind.

Gregory whispered about his private investigation of Sherlock’s “suicide.” Gregory wants to clear Sherlock’s name. Mycroft understands Gregory’s logic even as he knows any investigation is useless now. No, Mycroft can appreciate Gregory’s efforts. He can even admire it, in a way.

Mycroft isn’t the only one searching for forgiveness.

The investigation is still in preliminary stages. Gregory’s work tripled when the Yard cut off access to its resources, and moreover Gregory can’t seem to locate any eyewitnesses for the event. “That’s odd,” he tells Mycroft. “I’d look into it, but where do I look?” No witnesses have come forward to the press—Gregory wonders aloud if that isn’t Moriarty’s doing. John’s his best bet, but John’s not ready to testify yet.

Even Molly Hooper, who examined the body, is proving difficult. When Gregory went into St. Bart’s to interrogate her, the young mortician burst into tears before he could ask a single question.

Mycroft couldn’t say he was surprised. Miss Hooper had been obsessed with his brother for going on six years now. If anything, he only expected that would intensify now that Sherlock was gone. Loves lost, and all; never mind his brother never could have loved the girl. “You should have seen her at their Christmas party,” Gregory had said. Then he winced, remembering (quite correctly) that Mycroft hadn’t been invited. Mycroft had merely nodded.

“It’s understandable,” Gregory said, but his deep sigh and the hand he pushed through his hair suggested frustration. “She needs time.”

Mycroft nodded, sure in the knowledge that the same didn’t apply to the pair of them. They are alike in that the way they live for their work, even as they date and have sex and sleep side by side. Mycroft wouldn’t have it any other way. They’re too sensible for Molly Hooper’s brand of sentiment. It wouldn’t suit them. When Gregory and Mycroft have their lie-ins after the death of Sherlock Holmes it’s hardly the stuff of far-flung romance. It’s Mycroft whispering to Gregory what little information he had gathered about the Fall. It’s Gregory nodding, and whispering back. (He didn’t tell Gregory any more about interrogating Moriarty. That was all classified, anyway, and Gregory knew better than to ask.)

It doesn’t include sex. Mycroft hasn’t initiated, and Gregory, ever the consummate gentlemen, hasn’t pushed.

Mycroft isn’t an idiot. He knows Gregory will push eventually. Gregory enjoys sex immensely. Previous sexual encounters, in fact, have left both parties utterly satisfied. In the past, much of this relationship has left both parties satisfied…

However, things are different now. Mycroft is in mourning. He hasn’t any interest in carnal pleasures. Orgasms with Gregory have the power to wipe his mind clean, even for a few minutes, and Mycroft won’t do that anymore.

Gregory kisses him sometimes, in between their whispers. Mycroft waits for Gregory to push further, wonders when the ultimatum will finally be issued.

Things were far simpler back in the Diogenes Club.

But for now Gregory offers tea, telly, and free space on the sofa. For now Gregory slings his arm around Mycroft and Mycroft focuses on keeping his breath even.

“Can I get you anything?” Gregory asks. Mycroft shakes his head, and Gregory sighs a bit and leans his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft allows himself to be distracted by the story on the television set, by a fabrication (admittedly a high-budget fabrication) of England as it used to be. He sips the cup of tea Gregory made for him.

 

 

 

Even though Gregory hasn’t pushed to have sex, Mycroft does his best to delay getting to bed. He takes a shower. He switches into his normal pyjamas, having located the pair he’d begun keeping at Gregory’s place over the past month. (He’ll have his PA bring him a fresh suit in the morning.) He sits up in bed, checking his messages and sending a few urgent texts. (Wouldn’t do to call Buckingham, not at this hour…) Gregory watches Mycroft send the texts with a slight frown. Gregory is ostensibly reading a novel, of course, but Mycroft notes how infrequently he actually turns the pages. Normally Mycroft doesn’t mind being watched, especially not by his boyfriend, but right now he feels like a still-living butterfly mistaken for dead and pinned under glass. He refuses to squirm, but he does wish the detective would look away.

Mycroft sends a few more texts. He checks his calendar. Eventually Gregory puts his book down. Mycroft thinks he has won their silly little battle, but then Gregory grabs Mycroft’s arm. “You should go to sleep,” he says.

Mycroft pauses for a second, wondering if this will throw Gregory off. It does not.

Finally Mycroft nods, short and sharp, and puts his phone down. Gregory smiles and he looks so grateful, so unnecessarily so, that Mycroft finds himself leaning over to kiss Gregory. It’s a soft, simple kiss.

Just one.

Their quarrel is hardly over, but Gregory curls himself around Mycroft and snuggles into the back of Mycroft’s neck.

It’ll happen tomorrow morning, then. It must.

At least they’ll be able to last the night.

Mycroft relaxes against his boyfriend’s body, even though he knows it will only make the upcoming…negotiation all the more difficult. He feels helpless, in a way, and Gregory is so warm.

Even so, it’s a long while before Mycroft shuts his eyes and allows sleep to claim him.


	4. Part Three

In the end, it all comes to a head over breakfast.

“I could make us a fry-up,” Gregory says after he points Mycroft toward his espresso machine. (Mycroft was always better at operating it, anyway.) “Might as well, yeah? I don’t have anywhere more urgent to be.” He says the latter bit jokingly, in a way that only reveals how much Gregory misses his job. Not that this is news to Mycroft in any way.

Mycroft shrugs. The gesture feels utterly foreign to him. He likes that. “Make yourself whatever you like. I’ll just have the coffee.”

Gregory snorts. “Like hell you will. I can make you something else. What do you fancy?”

On another occasion Mycroft would rise to the obvious bait: say “you,” and kiss Gregory. On any other day that kissing would turn into sex in the kitchen, into Gregory bent against the counter and grinning from ear to ear until Mycroft did something that wiped the cheeky smirk off his face.

Instead Mycroft says, “Truly, I’m fine.”

(In the Diogenes club he ate very little. His body adjusted to the diet. He genuinely hasn’t been hungry these past hours.)

“When was the last time you ate?”

Mycroft rolls his eyes at the concern in Gregory’s tone. “Well, someone in this room fed me soup yesterday. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

“You know what I mean, My.”

Mycroft eyes Gregory where he leans against the kitchen counter. Somehow he does not believe an explanation of his reduced eating habits over the past week will satisfy Gregory at the moment. Instead, Mycroft hands him the first cup of espresso.

“Human bodies are terribly resilient, you know,” he tells Gregory. “There are documented cases of people surviving up to forty days without food, so long as they receive proper hydration.” He smiles a tiny bit at that. Gregory does not return the gesture, so Mycroft inclines his head to the side. “I can’t imagine you’ll have to watch me expire in front of your eyes.”

 _I’ll be gone before then,_ Mycroft doesn’t add, _as I can’t imagine you’ll want me around._ (Such thoughts are petty and useless, for all they might be true.)

Gregory puts down the espresso and comes up around the kitchen island to stand behind Mycroft. He rests his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and wraps his arms around his waist. “That’s not funny,” he whispers sweetly into the back of Mycroft’s neck. And Mycroft’s not sure why this of all things should make him break—maybe because he wants Gregory to stay exactly where he is but he can’t want that, he shouldn’t, not after what’s he’s done to Sherlock. He doesn’t deserve this anymore and Gregory does not deserve Mycroft’s brand-new pain by proxy. Gregory doesn’t deserve Mycroft’s pain, ever.

Whatever the reason, it happens.

Mycroft breaks.

He doesn’t cry—he hasn’t cried yet, not really, and he won’t. Instead, Mycroft Holmes braces himself for fresh heartache. He pours salt in his wounds.

“So sorry,” Mycroft whispers back. The words come out quiet, but there’s no mistaking his sarcastic tone.

Gregory certainly doesn’t miss it. He pulls back from his boyfriend and spins Mycroft around so that now they are face to face. (Now Mycroft has to look Gregory in the eye.)

Mycroft doesn’t like this one bit.

“ _Christ,_ My,” Gregory says.

Mycroft doesn’t break Gregory’s gaze. He remains silent. This, too, is a form of negotiation. (This was Moriarty’s form, for so many weeks, for every week until they did what any desperate high-ranking government official would do and called for Mycroft Holmes.)

Gregory grabs the back of Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft shudders, uncertain where this is headed. He loathes that uncertainty.

“It’s not difficult. Just eat something.”

Mycroft holds firm. “I haven’t been hungry.”

“Fine. Eat anyway.”

Gregory’s grip on Mycroft’s neck tightens further. He isn’t choking Mycroft ( _that_ Mycroft could handle, that would be appropriate and inappropriate in the clearest of ways) but his fingers dig into Mycroft’s skin. Mycroft wants to push the hand away, it’s invasive and unnecessary and warm and _too-much_ —but he does not push it away, and he does not understand why.

“Moriarty killed Sherlock, Mycroft,” Gregory says softly. “You didn’t.”

Mycroft wants to shake his head in disagreement, but with Gregory’s fingers digging into his skin and holding him still it isn’t an option. That’s fine, however. Mycroft will simply wait until Gregory grows bored of this drama. “I helped,” Mycroft says.

“Maybe,” Gregory says.

Mycroft blinks a few times, utterly shocked.

“But if that’s the case, then I also ‘helped’ Moriarty.”

Is that what all of this has been about, then? It would explain why every conversation yesterday occurred in hushed tones. Their words were the conferences between the guilty, as their whispers promised their guilt would never press beyond these walls.

It’s an option, indeed it’s an option Mycroft never considered. They could keep the secret between the two of them, never letting each other acknowledge their own guilt. Mycroft could even stay with Gregory, if he agreed to this contract. In a flash Mycroft can see it—eating again, letting Gregory fuck him into the mattress tonight. They would sign their contract with every bite of food and thrust in bed. They would add footnotes in whispers and sighs and the sweat from their intertwined bodies.

Is that what Gregory wants? It seems to be. When Mycroft glances at Gregory he doesn’t see any guilt in his boyfriend’s eyes. Gregory takes the hand away from Mycroft. He scratches the back of his own neck.

“It’s not that I think I’m innocent. It’s just…” Gregory shrugs, but it’s a gesture entirely for show. Gregory is affecting casualness that he clearly does not feel. _Oh._ Gregory needs this. He needs this delusion like Mycroft had needed silence.

“I can’t fix it now,” Gregory says. “I did my best. I warned him, you know, just like you warned John. It’s not that I didn’t do wrong, but I— _we_ —we work for queen and country, and I—”

“You were just doing your job.” The words come out lifeless, like Mycroft doesn’t even believe himself in their charade.

No a whispered contract and guilt-laden sex will not do. It’s a temporary solution at best, and resentment would build over time. Mycroft is certain of this. It isn’t the sort contract that lasts.

If there’s one thing Mycroft can recognize, (and abhor) it’s the kind of negotiation where nobody wins.

No. He won’t eat Gregory’s fry-up. He doesn’t need the food, does he? He doesn’t need anything—or anyone—at all. Mycroft takes a deep breath, comes back into himself.

Gregory is still talking.

“Look, it doesn’t matter who’s to blame, not anymore,” Gregory says. But Mycroft thinks that’s rather a matter of opinion.

“Sherlock didn’t jump off a building,” Gregory says, “so you could starve yourself,” and Gregory is finally, actually correct. Mycroft smiles a tiny bit, the type of smile Gregory has assured him looks more like a smirk than anything else.

Gregory is perfectly correct. In fact, everything makes sense in the light of his words. Sherlock wouldn’t approve of Mycroft’s current actions at all. But then, it’s not as though Sherlock leapt off (fell off) a building because he wanted to make Mycroft feel anything. Sherlock didn’t care much for Mycroft’s feelings, unless they were feelings of spite. No, Sherlock wouldn’t have enjoyed Mycroft’s hunger strike—Sherlock preferred seeing his brother shame-faced, fresh off another diet, with a stomach filled with too much cake.

That didn’t matter, however. Mycroft was meant to care for Sherlock’s feelings, even if the sentiment wasn’t returned. Mycroft was meant to be Sherlock’s keeper. He promised Mummy, shortly before she died, that he would take proper care of Sherlock. At the time he had felt the promise overwrought and unnecessary—of course he would care for Sherlock. It was his duty as a brother. He already knew that much. It was his duty as a Holmes.

Now it’s Mycroft’s greatest failure.

He’s wasting time here with Gregory. He could be repenting. He could even be working. He should leave.

Mycroft hears a low, feral sound. It must have come straight from the back of Gregory’s throat. Mycroft’s never heard it before. It makes his entire body freeze up.

“Don’t you dare,” Gregory says. He very nearly growls the words. “Stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Stop going into your head. I know we’re arguing right now, it’s written across your entire face, but you won’t say anything aloud so I can’t fight back. I know you do that sort of thing on purpose with the rest of them, but I can’t—just, don’t do it. Don’t do that with me.”

“We are arguing.” Mycroft wants it (needs it) confirmed.

“‘Course we are!” (Good: it will be easier to leave now. He’ll have obvious motive, Gregory won’t feel the need to follow, searching for answers.) “I love you, Mycroft, and I’m trying to help you. I want to make it better for you—only you won’t bloody let me!”

 _Ah._ Gregory fights using the dirtiest ammunition of all. Still, Mycroft shall not fall prey to sentiment. That was rather his brother’s territory. “I was better on my own.”

“No you bloody well weren’t! For God’s sake, My, on your own—you’re planning to starve yourself!”

“And you are overreacting,” Mycroft scoffs, turning away. It’s a lie, perhaps, but it’s also a negotiation. If there’s anyone that could negotiate an end to their own relationship, it’s Mycroft Holmes.

Gregory ought to understand that he’s a lost cause.

Mycroft needs to get his things.

“ _Fuck._ Mycroft, look: we both fucked up, I know you can see that.”

Mycroft pauses. He doesn’t turn around. Still, Gregory has surprised him.

“But you dedicate yourself to this…behaviour…as if it’s not just a way to make you feel better. You act as if it’s a way to honour him. That’s incorrect, Mycroft. It’s flat-out wrong.”

Mycroft finds himself nodding, almost against his will. He turns around to see Gregory pushing a hand through his own hair. Gregory bites his lip and stares at Mycroft for a moment before speaking again.

“I don’t know if this is some kind of strange Holmesian ritual or what, but, just, fuck it. You don’t want to eat? Fine. You don’t bloody have to. Just—Come on. We’re going.”

Then Gregory grabs Mycroft’s hand. He brooks no argument, and he does not let up until Mycroft is situated in Gregory’s car.

 

 

           

Mycroft struggles to deduce where they are headed. He stares out the window and refuses to speak. He realizes after two minutes that he has forgotten his phone. He doesn’t bother asking whether they can go back and fetch it.

Gregory offers no answers, not verbally. Mycroft reads the truth from his body instead. He’s not as good at this as Sherlock, but he is good enough for this. Gregory’s hands grip the wheel tightly—he’s unsure whether he has made the right decision, taking Mycroft wherever it is they are headed. His eyes glint as with the thought, “Well, at least I can’t make the situation any worse.”Gregory’s mouth is set in a deliberately neutral expression, just the barest hint of a frown. He does not wish to alarm Mycroft.

It’s touching, really, how every element of Gregory’s body expresses concern. Mycroft bites at the inside of his cheek, where he knows Gregory cannot see. He hadn’t realized his boyfriend cared so much.

Gregory had said “I love you” back in the kitchen. Perhaps Mycroft shouldn’t be so surprised.

 _Caring is not an advantage,_ he told Sherlock once. But Gregory chooses to care anyway, and perhaps Mycroft has been a fool for not understanding that. He has been negotiating with incorrect parameters. Who knows what damage he may have caused?

 _Oh,_ Mycroft thinks. He remembers, of course. This isn’t the first time sentiment has entered into their equation. Just before Gregory’s divorce was finalized, Mycroft had held the man in his sleep as Gregory shuddered, and had wondered desperately what he could do for this man. The oddest answer came to him the next day, after Gregory ended one of many miserable phone calls with his wife. These were the calls that left Gregory sighing deeply and rolling his eyes. Those things did not worry Mycroft. But there was the matter of Gregory’s other hand, the free one, which was meant to be taking notes but instead shuddered like Gregory’s body had shuddered the night before in bed. Gregory’s hand shook, open and empty, and Mycroft knew enough to understand that the hand indicated that Gregory had believed the entire situation out of his control. Mycroft hated that shaking hand, he didn’t hate Gregory but he hated his hand. He watched it, helpless to make it stop.

The moment Gregory ended the phone call Mycroft had grabbed his boyfriend’s lapel and kissed him deeply: deeply, but only once. It was a negotiation, and it succeeded, because Gregory kissed him the second time, and the third time, and the fourth time. Mycroft let him, Mycroft begged him to kiss him (not in so many words), all so that Gregory might take control of something.

He remembered hoping desperately that it would be enough. He had wanted to give Gregory everything his wife was taking from him. He had wanted to make Gregory his old self, somehow—as if that could even be accomplished through a few kisses. But Gregory had made him want something impossible. Not for himself, not at all, but for this other man.

Where would that Gregory, where would this Gregory, _who loved him_ , evidently, where would this new Gregory Lestrade take Mycroft Holmes? He looks once more at Gregory, and since it’s a stoplight Gregory looks right back, just for a second. He must read something into Mycroft’s face, (which isn’t ideal, people aren’t meant to be able to do that…) because he smiles a little at whatever change he can see there. He slips his hand into Mycroft’s own.  

Maybe wherever they’re headed does not matter. Maybe, just maybe, Mycroft can trust this.

It turns out they’re headed to _Boots,_ of all places. Gregory parks the car and when they get out Mycroft just looks at him across the top of the car.

Mycroft raises a single eyebrow.

Gregory snorts, undignified, and Mycroft greatly enjoys hearing the sound, knowing he elicited that.

“I need supplies,” Gregory says ambiguously. Mycroft nods and follows.

He follows Gregory down the shop’s aisles, up the escalator, follows him until Gregory has a box of nicotine patches in his hands and he swipes his card at the register. Suddenly they’re outside the door once more. It’s sunny outside and the sky is clear. It’s a perfect day. Mycroft hadn’t noticed before.

“Just felt a compulsion?” Mycroft says, pointing to the plastic bag in Gregory’s hands. Gregory hasn’t needed a patch in months.

Gregory shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

He ushers Mycroft back into the car and Gregory turns the car around. They set off in the proper direction this time, indeed they make a few telltale turns and suddenly it’s perfectly clear where they are headed. Mycroft feels a bit foolish for not guessing it before.

“Sherlock wouldn’t approve of this,” he says.

Gregory shrugs. “This isn’t about Sherlock. This is about paying our respects.”

“Why?” Mycroft is genuinely curious.

“Because that’s what people do when their brothers die, My. _This_ is how they’re meant to mourn.”

Mycroft can’t find it in himself to argue with that.

The car pulls into the car park and Gregory shuts off the ignition. Before they can get out of the vehicle he grabs Mycroft’s hand. “I think we should do this. I really, genuinely do. But we don’t have to.”

“It’s fine,” Mycroft says. He means it.

They exit the car, Gregory stopping to grab his recent purchase from the backseat, and they advance through the cemetery. It’s very green here. It must have rained earlier this morning because they trek though muddy grass. Their shoes will be ruined.

They arrive at a gravestone Mycroft has never seen before, the one his brother almost certainly wouldn’t care about.           

There is his brother’s name, etched deep into the shining black marble. Mycroft ordered the tombstone, of course, so the materials aren’t any surprise. Still, the finished product is striking; as impugned as it was in the papers, his brother’s name looks suitably noble chiselled in stone. Mycroft gets a kind of grim satisfaction from that.

Mycroft can see their twin reflections, his and Gregory’s, in the shining black slab. He can feel his own eyebrows rising as Gregory’s reflection bends down, placing the plastic bag at the foot of Sherlock’s grave.

“It’s a tribute,” Gregory says when he straightens up. “Only I have to keep bringing more every time because some bastard keeps nicking them.” 

Mycroft hears a foreign noise emerge from his own throat. It sounds like a whimper. He clears his throat and then realizes Gregory has taken his hand. Mycroft clears his throat once more. He doesn’t not let go.

“How often do you come here?” he asks.

“Well, er…This’ll be my fourth time, not counting the funeral.” Gregory winces at Mycroft’s look of surprise. “I know it’s a lot. I just...I like to think that somebody’s here to look after him. And I kept hoping I’d see you here, to be honest. I worried about you.”

Mycroft stares at their reflection, at the Boots bag cushioned at the seat of his brother’s tombstone. “Thank you,” he whispers. He feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.

Gregory’s reflection nods. “Of course,” he says. “I meant what I said, before, My. Even if it came out wrong.”

Mycroft stares at their reflections. He takes a slow, shuddering breath.

“Thank you,” he says again.

Gregory nods. He squeezes Mycroft’s hand once (silly as it is, Mycroft squeezes back) and then lets go. Mycroft doesn’t feel abandoned. He does not feel alone. He feels better, actually, like he’s ready to move on to something. To what, he isn’t certain. He finds he does not mind this uncertainty, which is the most surprising thing of all.

Then Gregory bends down again, fussing with the plastic bag around the patches, possibly trying to make certain the bag is tight enough to be waterproof, and Mycroft looks down at the earth around the grave.

Mycroft sees, nestled between blades of muddy grass, a single strand of hair. He leans down to examine it. Maybe they can ascertain the person who has stolen Gregory’s patches. It looks too long to be from John Watson, too dark to be from Mrs. Hudson…Mycroft plucks up the strand. When he straightens back up and gets a better look at it, he must do his best not to gasp.

He knows this hair. He grew up with this hair. It’s thin and long and black and curly, and it could only have come from the head of one Sherlock Holmes, or at the very least a close impersonation of his brother’s head. It does not do to presume, Mycroft knows this, but he also knows his brother’s hair.

He checks that Gregory is still fiddling with the bag, and then he whips his own head around until he sees it. Him. The ghost.

The ghost glares straight back at him, which is how Mycroft knows it’s certainly Sherlock’s hair. His brother, the perpetual idiot (for all his high IQ would have you believe), didn’t even bother hiding himself properly. His brother, who is very much _still alive._

Mycroft does what any good sibling would do. (Well, any Holmes sibling, anyway.) He glares, very obviously mouths “Leave here,” and then turns back to his boyfriend and pretends he hasn’t seen anything at all. He’ll need to come back later to talk to Sherlock alone.

Mycroft and Gregory stare at the grave side by side, as though nothing’s changed.

 _That’s_ where Gregory’s nicotine patches have gone, then. _Goodness._

He will never stop caring for his brother, never, because his brother will never stop being an utter fool.

Mycroft isn’t sure what emotions pass over him, exactly. Relief, he supposes. There’s shame, for hiding away inside, for not realizing sooner. Then there’s something much stronger, much more ridiculous, the most familiar emotion of all. Annoyance.

In the end, however, Gregory leans into Mycroft’s side. Mycroft puts an arm across his boyfriend’s shoulders, drawing him in. In the end he cracks a smile because his baby brother is alive and well enough to walk. His baby brother is running around like an idiot, leaving visible hairs at his grave and alarming Mycroft once more. Of course he is.

Sherlock would never do anything less.

Mycroft looks over at Gregory, wondering if his boyfriend will be alarmed at his smile. Gregory isn’t. He nods once at Mycroft, looking _proud,_ of all things. They don’t say anything at all, and Gregory smiles back.

**Author's Note:**

> The amazing Derpytuna drew fanart for this fic! (I'm pretty much dying of joy here.) [Check it out!](http://derpytuna.tumblr.com/post/33989585663/fanart-for-no-literallys-mystrade-fanfic-in)


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